


In the darkness you are my light.

by BarPurple



Series: Sherlolly Against the World [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Molly, Hurt Sherlock, John is a Good Friend, John is a Very Good Doctor, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nightmares, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The images of pain flashed through his mind. Was this happening, or was this memory? He couldn't tel, so he did what he had done before, he fought.</p><p>This time his desperate actions bring him more pain than he could imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the darkness you are my light.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. There is a lot of pain in this fic.

_The wave of pain as a fist wrapped around a roll of coins connected with his gut._

_His vision blurring and the sharp taste of blood filling his mouth._

_The dry burn of the ropes across his aching wrists as he pulled free from them._

_His hands finally closing around his torturer’s throat, heedless of the pain from two broken fingers._

“Sherlock!”

_The feral roar of anger tearing from his throat …wait… no, the mobsters didn’t know his real name._

“Sherlock! Please.”

The shroud of dreaming tore away and his eyes finally saw what was truly in front of him. With an anguished howl Sherlock threw himself backwards from the bed.

 

John’s hand was reaching for his phone before his slumbering mind had fully registered that it was ringing. He hit the answer icon and fumbled the phone towards his ear.

“Erm ‘ello.”

“John. I need you to come to Baker Street.”

John sat bolt upright. The simple fact that his best friend was phoning rather than texting, or breaking into the house to talk to him was enough to dispel lingering sleep. 

“Sherlock, what’s happened?”

“I need you at Baker Street. Bring your kit, John.”

The dead flat sound of Sherlock’s voice had John out of bed and rapidly pulling his jeans on over his pyjamas. 

“Who’s hurt Sherlock? Have you phoned an ambulance?”

“Molly. She won’t let me. Please John get here as fast as you can.”

John swore at his phone if it was the Samsung’s fault that Sherlock had hung up. He glanced at his bed to find Mary looking at him, the concern on her face obvious even in the dim early morning light.

“What do you need?”

John thanked his lucky stars that Mary wasn’t one to ask questions or lose her head in a crisis. He’d never been more grateful for her chilly practicality.

“Molly’s hurt. Sherlock sounds terrified.”

Mary gave a curt nod and reached for her own phone. Her fingers flying across the screen as John’s head vanished into his jumper.

“Drive fast, but safe. I’ll let Mycroft know there’s a problem.”

He blew her a kiss from the bedroom door and rushed off into the cold grey pre-dawn.

 

John crashed into the door of 221B and he stumbled into the hallway as it burst open. He was pulled up short by the sight of Sherlock sitting on the bottom step, a lit cigarette hanging limply between his fingers, the smoke curling in the draft from the open door behind him. The vacant thousand yard stare in Sherlock’s normally vibrant eyes only deepened John’s worry.

“She’s upstairs. Look after her John. Please.”

From the sound of his voice Sherlock was in shock. John gave him a fast visual once over before he gave a nod and ran up the stairs two at a time. Whatever had happen here Sherlock wasn’t in immediate danger. Had John not been so focused on getting to Molly, he might have heard the front door close leaving only silence and a trace of cigarette smoke in the hall.

 

“Molly! Molly!”

John shouted as he entered the flat. 

“Bathroom.”

That Molly responded was a good sign; that her voice sounded so hoarse was not. John caught his first look of his patient as he rounded the bathroom door. Friendship over-ruled professionalism as he gasped;

“Oh Molly, what happened?”

“He didn’t mean to John. Nightmare.”

She coughed painfully. The skin of Molly’s throat was already blooming with dark, finger shaped bruises. She was holding a towel to the back of her head that made John suspected a scalp wound. He moved forward slowly, wary of panicking her.

“Can I Molly?”

She blinked her consent rather than risk nodding. Even as he shifted into full medic mode, John couldn’t help himself, he had to ask;

“Sherlock left you like this? He didn’t help you?”

“He was here until a moment ago. He called you. Got me in here. For first aid kit. He only just left. To open the front door. Where is he?”

Her voice had sounded tired and pained up until her question when a hint of panic crept into her tone. John carefully moved the towel she held to her skull hushed her to cover his wince.

“Shh, it’s okay. He’s sat on the stairs. Let me get you patched up then we can see to Sherlock okay?”

John tilted his head down so he could meet Molly’s eyes. He was relieved when she gave him a small, tight smile and didn’t try to bolt after Sherlock. With steady precise movements Doctor Watson when to work treating the physical wounds; he refused to let himself consider the immense task that would be the mental trauma caused by this night’s terrors.

 

The city of London never really sleeps. No matter the time of day or night there are always people awake going about their business, legal or otherwise. The tall, dark haired man walking barefoot along the streets, his dressing gown billowing out behind him barely caused a raised eyebrow. Those who looked passed his strange attire and caught sight of his eyes shuddered and hurried on their way. Londoners are generally a brave and ballsy lot, but the haunted terror in those blue-green eyes was just too much to tangle with.

The black car’s brakes squealed as it bumped the curb just in front of the pyjama clad man. He stopped and stood staring vacantly into space, his eyes seeing much worse than the chewing gum marred pavement and graffiti tagged post box before him. He offered no resistance as he was gently, but firmly herded into the back seat. 

A little way back along the street a thin figure moved out of the shadow of an alley and watched as the car drove away. A mobile phone was tapped quickly and held to a grubby ear.

“Missus Watson. Big Bruffer’s got him. He didn’t buy nuffing.”

Wiggins tipped a salute at a nearby CCTV camera before hunching down into his jacket and disappearing back into the shadows.

 

Mycroft placed the mug of tea on the side table next to the wingback chair by the fire and gazed at the wretched figure of his brother curled within. 

“Sherlock, drink your tea.”

Surprise joined the queue of emotions waiting to twist at his heart as Sherlock complied without complaint or comment. Mycroft wasn’t given to physical displays with his brother, but at this moment it was taking all of his legendary control to prevent him from hugging Sherlock and promising things he couldn’t deliver to make the pain go away.

Instead he perched on the chair opposite and took a sip of his own tea. The Great British cure-all worked its magic slowly, but eventually Sherlock raised his eyes to Mycroft’s face. He stared blankly for a long moment, before tears started to spill down his face, his empty mug dropping from his lax fingers. Mycroft was by his side in a heartbeat, now giving Sherlock the hug he needed. He pulled his brother’s head to his chest and let him sob and bawl out the pent up emotions of the night.

Finally Sherlock sniffed wetly and push his brother away as he wiped his face on the sleeve of his dressing gown. Mycroft retreated to his own chair.

“Tell me what happened, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sniffed again and his lip trembled as he spoke.

“Nightmare. South Africa.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and blew out a soft breath. During his time away Sherlock had had many brushes with death, but South Africa had been vicious and far too close a call. The team that had retrieved him had found him drugged and bloody, his hands still wrapped around the throat of his very dead torturer. In the immediate aftermath Sherlock had claimed that the drugs they’d pumped into him had wiped his memories of the days he’d been held. Mycroft kicked himself for not checking on Sherlock face to face the second he’d read that in the report. He should have known the event would have left more than just the physical scars on his brother. 

He opened his eyes and found Sherlock staring into the fire, fresh tears rolling unheeded down his face.

“She asked me if I was alright.”

Mycroft’s brow creased into a small frown, which he forced away as Sherlock turned once more to face him.

“After I’d choked her, split her head open on the bedframe, she sat there bleeding and asked me if I was alright.”

Molly, dear Molly. Of course her first thought would be to Sherlock’s well-being, Mycroft had never known a women so open hearted and devoted to those she loved. His brother first among that number, the recipient of more love from the petite woman than Mycroft thought existed in the rest of the world.

“How can she do that? Worry about me after what I’d just done to her?”

“She loves you Sherlock.”

“I don’t deserve her love.”

Sherlock suddenly leapt to his feet and started pacing back and forth, his hands raked painfully through his hair. When he began to speak his voice was as frantic and desperate as his movements.

“Send me away Myc. There’s always a mission somewhere isn’t there? I don’t care what, just send me away. Far away, so Molly will be safe from me. Somewhere dark and bloody where people deserve to be hurt, it’s the only thing I’m good for now…”

Mycroft rose to his feet and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders. It took Sherlock’s feet a moment to catch up with the fact that he’d been stopped, but Mycroft held him firm until he was still. Sherlock’s eyes were still darting frantically like a trapped animal, nonsensical babble still falling from his lips when Mycroft slapped him.

It wasn’t a hard slap, but the shock of it was enough to focus his brother.

“The only place I’m sending you is back to Baker Street. No, listen to me Sherlock. Molly loves you and she will help you through this.”

Sherlock recoiled from his brother with a disgusted sneer on his face. Oddly enough Mycroft found this encouraging; this was a step away from the abyss.

“Are you so set on the idea that love is a chemical defect you would endanger Molly by sending me back to her?”

Anger, but protective as well. Good. Mycroft kept his tone soft, so Sherlock would have to focus to hear him.

“You should be on your knees thanking whatever deity blessed you with the love of Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock boggled at him, but some of the hysterical tension in his lanky frame drained away. Mycroft could see his brother’s mind regaining control, pushing back the tide of fear and desperation that had threatened to swamp him only seconds ago.

“You don’t believe in God, Mycroft.”

“Witnessing the evidence of Molly’s deep and abiding affection for you I have at last accepted the possibility of a higher power.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh; it was a little forced but thankfully not tainted with madness. He dropped back into the chair his elbows on his splayed knees and his head in his hands. Mycroft stood for a moment longer before resuming his own seat.

“What do I do, brother mine?”

“For tonight we get you back to Molly, before she worries herself sick. I’m assuming it is only the stubbornness of Doctor Watson that is keeping her from storming my house to be by your side. Tomorrow I suggest you begin working with a therapist.”

Sherlock’s head rolled upright on his neck and he raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“You’re recommending a MI6 shrink?”

“Heavens no, I’m suggesting you see mine.”

Sherlock’s head dropped again and he became intently focused on his fingernails. He sounded like the little boy he once was when he said;

“Thanks Myc.”

 

John’s relief poured off him in tangible waves as Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the flat. Even with her potential concussion it had been near impossible to persuade Molly that chasing after Sherlock wasn’t a good idea. She’d retreated into the bedroom fifteen minutes ago after John had employed the full force of his Captain Watson voice and ordered her to rest.

“Thank fuck you’re home. I was this close to sedating her.”

Molly ran from the bedroom. She swallowed thickly as her eyes fell on Sherlock. John saw his best friend’s heart break as he took in the bruises on Molly’s neck. For a second he thought Sherlock was going to fall to the floor, but then Molly was there and the two were clinging to each other. John turned his head away from the very private scene playing out in front of him. Even as he tried not to listen he heard the words of reassurance spilling from their mouths.

“I’m so sorry. So very sorry Molly.”

“I’m alright, Sherlock. It’s all going to be alright.”

He quietly walked into the kitchen and softly shut the doors before putting the kettle on. As the water boiled John rubbed the tension from the back of his neck. It was clear to him that Sherlock had to walk a long hard road to recover from the demons of his two years ‘dead’. It was a road that John himself was all too familiar with. He smiled a little at the thought that perhaps Sherlock’s demons didn’t know what they had coming, because his friend would not be walking alone, not by a long shot. 

John shook his head at the fanciful image his mind conjured of Sherlock’s friends stalking the halls of his mind palace bearing swords, slaying the demons, beating back the darkness and restoring the light to the soul of the world’s only consulting detective.

“God I need sleep,” he muttered to himself as he brewed his tea.


End file.
